Roll ‘Em

I’d had one more than I should. Maybe two. Or three. I knew that. I mean, I wasn’t so far gone that I didn’t know that. Now, Chloe sat a new round in front of me at the bar. Maker’s Mark, two pieces of ice. That’s my usual. Not on the rocks. If you say, “on the rocks” you get a glass full of ice with a bit of watered-down bourbon. Might was well pour that shit into some Diet-RC Cola. That’s not what I like. It’s not what I want. I like my bourbon. Like it is. Proper bourbon. Just, you know, a tiny bit chilled. With a gun to my head, if I had to chose between on the rocks and neat, I’d go neat every time. Cause, you know, if you don’t like whiskey, you shouldn’t drink it.

But, hey, did I even order another round? No recollection, but I must have. Chloe’s solid, she wouldn’t game a regular. Or was it him? I looked to my right. There he was, still there, like a cartoon devil sitting on my shoulder. I looked to the left, nothing. No angel. Cartoon or otherwise. It must’ve been the devil.

I shook my head, tried to focus on the neon PBR sign that hung behind the bar. It held for a second and then shot off to the left. Then it was back. And shot off again. The Rock-Ola was pumping out Sweet Home Alabama, or Give Me Three Steps, or something. A young woman behind me to my left was cackling.

“You have to focus,” I thought. “Something important is going down here.”

I picked up my fresh drink and took a sip. Made a face. Then, as casually as I could, I willed myself to look to my right again. He looked like Tom Waits, with a soul-patch – looking right at me. He was waiting. Grinning, Expecting. Urging.

I shook my head firmly, no dice.

The devil smiled, said, “Oh come on brother, don’t be like that. You almost won last time didn’t you? Now, roll ’em.”